


Eye of the Storm

by missmichellebelle



Category: Glee RPF
Genre: Anger, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fights, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-09
Updated: 2014-09-09
Packaged: 2018-02-16 20:12:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2283045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmichellebelle/pseuds/missmichellebelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because this is what Chris does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eye of the Storm

**Author's Note:**

> Idk man Mandy suggested it go and blame her
> 
> This went so much darker than I intended whoops
> 
> I'm sure looking at those tags you guys are wondering wtf you're in for

The second Darren steps into the house, he knows something is wrong. There’s this heaviness in the air that makes him feel like he’s walking into something he shouldn’t be—but he walks forward, anyway. Darren has always kind of been shit at doing what he’s supposed to.

Chris is in the kitchen, making more noise than is probably necessary as he washes dishes. Darren walks hesitantly closer, stopping a good deal further away than he normally would and leaning against the counter. Chris is going at what appears to be an already clean plate vigorously with a sponge, and it doesn’t take long for Darren to realize that something is up.

“I’m home,” he announces, after Chris doesn’t give any indication of noticing his presence.

“I know.” Chris’s voice is clipped, and the way he sticks the already very clean plate into the dishwasher makes Darren worry it’s going to break. “I heard the door.”

That’s it. No hello kiss, no asking about his day, no _eye contact_. Darren’s fingers drum against the counter, and he presses his lips together.

He’ll try the direct approach, first.

“You oka—”

“Fine,” Chris interrupts him, and the clatter of silverware against a pan makes Darren wince. Okay, that’s clearly not going to work.

“What did you do today?” Darren tries instead.

“Wrote.” _Crash_. “Had some phone conferences.”

Seriously, Chris is going to break something.

When he doesn’t say anymore, Darren pushes his lips together, before deciding to push forward into what is quite possibly very dangerous territory.

“What did—“

Chris’s hands slam down against the counter, scattering suds in varying directions.

“Don’t you have somewhere to _be?_ ” Chris asks, voice hostile as he stares at the backsplash behind the sink.

Darren winces away from the tone, crosses his arms and stares at the kitchen floor as Chris goes back to attacking the dishes. There hadn’t even been dishes in the sink when Darren left that morning—he did them all last night. He can only assume that Chris decided every piece of dish ware they owned suddenly needed to be cleaned.

Because this is what Chris does. It’s not like he can’t express himself, but it’s harder for him with certain things, like sadness, or insecurity, or anger. He finds outlets for them in working out, or writing, or in a myriad of other ways that don’t involve actually talking about what he’s feeling in any capacity.

From the sharp, biting tone of his voice, Darren can guess easily enough that he’s angry. Not for any particular reason, just that his limit line has been reached. Chris lets things slide, and slide, and slide, and they slowly stack up inside of him until the tiniest thing sends him into berserker mode.

It’s scary. It’s scary as fuck. Even though he cleans a lot for some reason that Darren doesn’t exactly get, but doesn’t question. But it’s scary because Chris seems to lose the rest of himself in the anger, let’s it consume him and everything else around him. These days, Darren takes the brunt of it—he’s around, he’s an easy target, Chris knows every weak point he has and how to use them to his advantage.

Sometimes Darren can deal.

Sometimes he has to go and crash at someone else’s place.

Sometimes he says things he really regrets, and it turns into one of the ugliest arguments they’ve ever had.

One time, they broke up over it. It was only for about twelve hours, but still. It happened. That’s what makes it so fucking terrifying.

The best thing to do is to get all the steam out of Chris as quickly as possible, because the longer it stews, the more pressure it builds, and the nastier Chris gets.

So Darren does what he always does, and lets himself be the target. Because those are just the kind of things you do for the people you love.

“That’s not dishwasher safe,” Darren says just as Chris lowers a glass dish onto the rack. It absolutely is, but that doesn’t matter. That’s not the point. Chris goes completely still, and then pointedly sets the dish right where he was going to before Darren said anything.

“Yes it is.”

“No, it’s not.”

Darren has always been good at picking fights.

Chris turns to look at him for the first time since Darren walked through the door, and his glare could burn the skin off anyone not accustomed to it.

(Luckily for Darren, he’s been on the receiving end of it many times— _too_ many times.)

“Are you serious right now?” Chris enunciates each word carefully, like it’s the only thing keeping him together.

Good.

“Do you want me to pick up the fucking thing and read to you where it says that it’s dishwasher safe?”

Darren scrunches his nose, says, “Nah,” and puts on the most nonchalant air he can manage while his heart is pumping wildly with adrenaline in his chest. “I mean, how often are those things right, anyway?”

“Always,” Chris grits. “They are always fucking right.” Darren just shakes his head. “What, are you a master in glassware now, too?” Chris’s voice gets a little higher, a little more hysterical.

Almost there.

Darren shrugs an ultimate _I don’t care_ shrug, the kind that Chris _hates_ when they’re having any sort of discussion. “I mean, when I was in Italy—“

“You are so fucking pretentious!” And there it is. Darren feels like he needs to plant his feet, like there’s a freight train about to barrel into him, but he doesn’t move from where he’s still leaning across the counter. “I’ve been to Italy, too, Darren, and it doesn’t make me a fucking _glass blower!_ ” Chris angrily grabs a towel and wipes his hands like they’re the things he’s angry at.

When he throws the towel, it whizzes past Darren and falls limply to the ground.

This is the part Darren hates. This is the part that hurts. This is the part where Chris yells about things he doesn’t really mean, but that hit at Darren’s insecurities. They’re the things that Chris will try to kiss better later, across every inch of Darren’s skin, but that will still leave the smallest of scars behind. Words hurt, and Chris knows how to wield them.

“You think you fucking know everything, know how to do everything, but you don’t! I’m so fucking tired of you walking around like the whole world is in your pocket like the pretentious, privileged brat that you are. The fucking golden child, with sun shining out of his ass. Can do anything, be anyone. Not everyone is that fucking fortunate, so why don’t you stop rubbing it in our faces!”

It’s like getting stabbed, and Darren lowers his head, closes his eyes, focuses on breathing. _He doesn’t mean it_ , he tells himself. _He’s just angry_. Darren’s throat feels thick, and his body is telling him to _leave, leave, get away from this_ , but he doesn’t. He waits it out. Just a little longer now.

“What else?” Darren prompts, voice smaller than he means it to be—smaller and broken and hurt.

“What else?!” Chris cries.

“What else are you tired of?”

“Everything!” Chris paces back and forth, gripping his face, his hair, whipping around like a storm. “I’m tired of my career, I’m tired of social media, I’m tired of being in a relationship that I have to hide, I’m tired of having editors breathing down my neck, I’m tired of writer’s block.”

Darren finally pushes off the counter and slowly makes his way towards Chris, one step for every reason Chris lists. His voice is going from incredibly pissed to exactly what he’s saying—tired. Tired, and stressed, and upset, as he unravels everything right there in their kitchen.

“I’m tired of Lea canceling lunch plans with me, I’m tired of feeling like I’m losing my friendship with her, I’m tired of my mom calling every week, I’m tired of how I feel like I never see you anymore, I’m tired of how I have no idea where my career is going.”

Darren takes Chris’s hands from where they’re covering his face.

“I’m so tired,” Chris tells him, looking him in the eye, voice so much smaller than it was minutes ago, and Darren pulls Chris close, enveloping him in his arms.

“It’s okay to be tired,” Darren tells him in a low, soft voice. “We all get tired.”

Chris doesn’t cry, just let’s Darren hold him, let’s him run his hands up and down Chris’s spine and into his hair, soothing him. They stand like that for a few minutes, Chris’s face tucked into his neck, before Chris finally speaks.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s really not,” Chris mutters. “I always do this to you. Oh god, Darren, the things I _said_ —“

“You didn’t mean them.” Darren pulls back, and Chris looks at him desperately. “I know you didn’t. I say a lot of things I don’t mean when we fight, it’s okay.” A few pieces of hair have flopped down into Chris’s eyes, and Darren pushes them back.

“I cleaned the entire kitchen,” Chris says, staring at him, and Darren blinks at him before chuckling.

“Of course you did.” And he pulls Chris close, kisses his temple, hums softly in the back of his throat.

“…I don’t know how you do this,” Chris murmurs.

“Do what?”

“Put up with me, when I get like this.” Chris’s eyelashes tickle against Darren’s throat when he blinks. “If you turned into a vicious monster every time you were angry, I don’t know if I could do it.”

“Yeah, well, Belle fell in love with a Beast, and it turned out all right for her, right?” Darren grins.

“She—“

“If you bring up the Stockholm Syndrome thing right now, Chris, I fucking swear to god.”

Chris laughs, nuzzles against Darren’s neck, and Darren let’s the affection wash over him and soothe where he aches. It’s not enough, not nearly, but it works for now.

“Does that mean I turn back into a prince at the end?”

“That’s what I forgot!” Darren jerks back, making Chris wobble from the sudden lack of Darren’s body holding him up, and by the time he’s found his feet again, Darren is cupping his face in his hands. “True Love’s Kiss.”

“You are such a—“

Darren smiles and kisses him, Chris’s lips buzzing against his own and he continues to try and talk, and then his hand clutches weakly at Darren’s arm and kisses back.

“Dork,” Chris finishes.

“Yeah, but I’m a dork with his prince back.” And Darren pops a loud kiss against Chris’s forehead, and is rewarded with a loving smile.

**Author's Note:**

> [Read, Reblog, & Like on Tumblr](http://missmichellebelle.tumblr.com/post/97109039830/eye-of-the-storm)


End file.
